


A Piece of Seeming

by athousandwinds



Category: SUTCLIFF Rosemary - Works, The Mark of the Horse Lord - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/pseuds/athousandwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Horse Lord and Midir don't quite make a real person, and Conory isn't the only one who sees it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piece of Seeming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyna/gifts).



The new Midir was taller than Conory had thought he would be.

He stood in the entrance to the cavern, framed against the overhanging rock by the flickering light of the fire. His hair had darkened, Conory thought, a deeper and murkier shade of red; but perhaps that was the cave, perhaps in Lugh's shining light it brightened to copper. It was the uncertain flame that lengthened him, too; and his mother Lorwen's mistake when she'd clicked her tongue over how Midir's slender frame would endure all his life.

"But how do you come here when you were drowned?" asked Comgall, and Eochaid after him, swiftly, "Yes, tell us what passed that night and after!"

Midir's voice, when he spoke, was deep and harsh, and Conory heard in it the cadence of the boy who had been his friend and heart-companion; even though the clipped vowels were new, even though it never cracked once, as Midir's had done on the day he drowned.

("Did not you see the look of Liadhan, the day my father returned from hunting?" Midir had asked him, standing beside the loch. They had said to the Royal Woman and Lorwen that they planned to swim, for the winter had been mild; wet and green, not white and cold. A good winter, Conory's father had called it, until Levin had coughed out his last bloody breath and Midir had drowned, and he'd been forced to fight out of season. The wheels of his chariot had skidded in the mud, and him thrown beneath them. Conory had been his charioteer, had gone into the darkness of the Place of Life at the Feast of New Spears the year before, and not been a man until that moment.

"I saw it," Conory had said, for he was not in the habit of contradicting Midir. He had not seen it that day, but his mother had, and nor was he in the habit of disbelieving her. 

"She has dropped the kingship into Logiore's mind," said Midir. "My father is too long dying; she has had her three days of work."

"Yes," said Conory, thinking it through. There were those among the Companions that would crawl after Liadhan on their knees for a glance, more still who were conquered by her sharp reason. The women of the Dalriadain kept their own counsel, and their dirks, too, hidden beneath soft cloths and piles of spun thread. There were those who loved Liadhan with all the power in their blood, for her gaze called to you and clenched at your heart, and it was they who whispered _the goddess has come among us_ , it was they who crowded round the bed of the dying king like an honour guard. They spilled across the Citadel, and through the five courts of the Dun Monaidh, three of them for every one who might be thought to take Midir's part in the fighting to come. Those who had ridden for Levin of the Long Sword and no other were still riding for him; the hunt that had felled the king was still scattered across the hills, for it had not been sport. The food in the stores had spoiled, his mother had said, her brow furrowing.

He had turned his head to tell Midir this, about his mother's frown, and found to his surprise that Midir already knew. "Some trick of the Earth, perhaps," he had said, "to make us think what was healthy was not."

"Oh, yes," Midir had said. He had taken Conory's hands then, his grip digging into Conory's palms. "Will you stand my friend, when the time comes?"

That was when his voice had cracked, perhaps for the last time; the final weakness of childhood leaving him.

"You insult me," Conory had said, had bethought him of how to reply to the question weeks before. "But I forgive you, Horse Lord.")

"Midir," he said softly, and the new Midir's gaze swung to him, the way iron veered towards a lodestone.

Conory held out his hands, and found himself embraced. He hugged back, like testing a new blade for strength.

"You've changed," said Midir, almost accusingly.

"Have I?" said Conory. Midir's voice had been wrong, he thought. Midir was watching him, assessing him, and he was not sure he had not been found wanting. It was that which stung him, which made him say: "So have you. So have you."

* * *

In the Fire Hall, Conory got third-best of everything, and had ever since Beltane.

Tonight it was Logiore who had the finest cuts of meat, all his stomach would hold, the richest and darkest wine, and silk to wipe his mouth. It was the peculiar genius of Liadhan that she never begrudged honours paid to anyone; she poured out grace like wine, but only she ever held the jug. Those in the Fire Hall who had blooded themselves in battle were hung with flowers and treasure from her white hands, but the gifts themselves became holy, became the reason above reason to fight at all.

The talk at table was muffled; no one had raised their voice in song. Some hardly ate, the young ones with two plaits framing their faces pushed even the meat away. There was a curious stillness in the air tonight.

(The last time the Hall was so silent, a slave from the Little Dark People, her eyes wide and anxious, had pressed Liadhan's pendant into his hand. On one face had been a crescent moon, on the other a horse's head. He had felt the etching of it against his palm, and looked up, and seen Liadhan's face.

For a moment, he had been Logiore. Liadhan then had seemed to be the only person in the world, the world in herself, and he had understood what it meant to be the seven-year king, her High Priest. A wild exhilaration had filled him, a desperate longing to know the secrets of the moon, of the Old Blood, and the Dark People.

Then his cat had dug her claws into his shoulder, and his gaze had flinched from Liadhan's, knowing suddenly that he could not hold it, that he could not hold his hand in an unchecked blaze, hungry and all-consuming. His look flickered from her to Murna, who seemed smaller and drabber, but steadier, and Murna had caught his eyes, had gazed back with an expression he had not understood.

He still did not understand.)

Conory rose as if in a dream, his cat warm against the crook where his shoulder met his neck and his dagger cold at his hip. He looked over at the sheepskins, where Logiore had stripped to the waist. Liadhan's face as she looked upon her old king was proud, satisfied, and a little regretful. Conory wondered if it were a sop to Logiore, a reassurance that he would be missed. He thought about Murna, who still held the jug in her hands.

"Do you be quiet until I say, dearest," he murmured to Shan, who kneaded his shoulder a little, and then he looked to Logiore, whose weapons were out now, as he took up his place.

Logiore was gazing upon him hungrily, as one who has seen true exaltation and longs for just one more taste, one more moment among heaven. Conory took note of his eyes, and hitched Shan up an inch higher. He drew his dagger, long and sharp, threw Shan from his shoulder and turned and struck – at Liadhan.

The cry went up from the Women's Side, and the Hall went berserk.

* * *

In the long weeks that followed the wedding, when leaves began to bud on the trees once more and the ground softened beneath their feet, Conory bethought him to speak to Murna.

He approached her while she was kneeling before the fire, poking a long stick into the heart of it to feed the kindling embers. She heard his footsteps behind her, and turned around.

"The Horse Lord is gone to hunt," she said.

"I know," said Conory. "Think you he would not tell his Companion of Companions? I am here seeking you."

Murna watched him for a moment, her hands still in her lap. She had abandoned her long stick, the end of it began to crackle and turn black in the heat. "Are you his Companion of Companions, then, Conory?"

"If I am otherwise, he has yet to tell me," Conory said.

"Perhaps I should be turning the question around," said Murna, and Conory felt the prick of satisfaction like the closing of a door. He waited for her to continue, but she shrugged her shoulders. The red flame licked up the stick and Murna, without looking at it, snapped it in half and drew the half in her hand away from the fire.

He said, "My love for Midir is unchanged."

"No," said Murna, with a sudden mordant amusement. "It is very changed; for he is very changed himself."

"No one questions it," said Conory. "Least of all the Horse Lord, but I question you."

"He is my husband," said Murna. "I am Queen before my time. What good would it do me, asking a question?"

_Before my time._ Conory thought, No one can be goddess and acolyte both. He looked at Murna and saw that she knew it already, had known it much longer than anyone else. He said, "It might buy you some trouble, at the right moment."

"A thought to keep close," Murna said. "Why do you say it to me?"

Conory mirrored her; he shrugged his shoulders. "A boyish temptation to be forever kicking hornets' nests," he said.

"You and Midir both," said Murna. She rose, her back straight and her head high, regal. "But in that, too, I find him much changed."

"I see," said Conory.

* * *

Red Phaedrus of the Arena looked as well on a dun colt as Midir of the Dalriadain, young and strong and fearless. Brys ducked under the colt's belly as Midir halted, pulling at the saddle-rug so that it should not rub too hard against the horse's back, and nimbly jumping aside as Midir swung himself down.

"My thanks, Brys," he said. "Your thought was right all along; so now you are proven wiser than all the grey-muzzles put together."

Had Conory said it, Brys would have assumed he heard wit where there was none; as it was, he went scarlet at the praise and nodded mutely. He scurried away at Midir's smile, as if he had forgotten an earlier task.

"What was his idea?" Conory asked. Midir shed his cloak, exposing his fine arms to the spring breeze. Conory watched him covertly; that he _knew_ made the tiny differences all the bigger.

"That the Caledones would be travelling the most eastern hunting-run," said Midir. "Gault would have it that it was the one that runs south and east across the stream, but Brys would not be moved."

He slung one arm across Conory's shoulders, in his casually possessive way. This was not really Phaedrus's way, Conory knew, but Midir's. It was a part of his play, the generous Horse Lord's mouth and Phaedrus's quiet, watchful eyes. Red Phaedrus, perhaps, and very little of mere Phaedrus.

So he was surprised, for half a heartbeat, when Phaedrus drew him away from the others, speaking much but saying nothing, until they were quite away. Then Phaedrus said, abruptly, breaking off his flow of words, "I thought you would have gone to Eburacum by now."

He seemed uncertain of Conory's response, which break in his composure was unusual, for he passed off the most egregious mistakes with ease.

"I am not in the habit of trading one friend for another," said Conory, "so much less one Midir for another Midir." He paused, thinking it through. "And besides, if I did, it would soon become trading one Horse Lord for another Goddess-on-Earth."

"That it would," said Phaedrus. "And – I thank you."

"It is not much of a service to be doing nothing," said Conory. He thought of Midir, blind and alone, and his throat closed up. It would be madness to leave now, to disturb all those doubts which had floated to the bottom of the river. _Conory has quarrelled with Midir, what has Midir done? Conory never quarrelled with Midir before he drowned._

He opened his eyes to find Phaedrus watching him. "He is well, you know," said Phaedrus. "At least as well as any man with vengeance to occupy him. He isn't alone, in that or any other thing he might do."

He laid a hand gently on Conory's shoulder, and squeezed lightly. Conory put up his hand to touch Phaedrus's fingers, and they stayed like that for more than a dozen heartbeats.

"There," said Phaedrus.

* * *

"I think," said Phaedrus one day, lying on the grass beside the loch, "Murna would not kill me, if she had a fine chance at it."

"Just so," said Conory. He had seen this for himself, Murna's knotty tangle of marriage and blood feud and fellow feeling. It was in her face when she looked at Phaedrus; it was even sometimes in her face when she looked at Conory, as if she _knew_ , but of course she did know.

"I am not sure," said Phaedrus. "I would not be sure if Lugh with his Shining Spear told me himself, but I do not think she would."

"She cares for you," said Conory, keeping his eyes on the soft rustle of grass, which might be the breeze, or an adder. "You, I mean, and not Midir."

"Yes," said Phaedrus. "I am not sure about anyone else among the Epidii, but I am sure of that."

"You should be sure of me, by now," said Conory. Phaedrus raised his head to stare at him, and Conory shrugged his shoulders. Shan returned from her disdainful perch on the bank with a trophy, which she began to tear at.

"I am glad," said Phaedrus, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leant forward and kissed Conory on the mouth. The movement was smooth – gladiatorial, Conory thought wildly, this is the way they teach gladiators to move – and he shifted back to accommodate Phaedrus's weight. The kiss deepened, and he brought his hands up to rest against the back of Phaedrus's neck, closing his eyes and lingering, not for Midir but for Phaedrus.

"There," said Phaedrus, pulling back. Conory kissed him again, pushing him down slightly, and following. But Phaedrus wouldn't stand for it, and Conory found himself on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and still kissing at Phaedrus's mouth.

"Do you – " he tried to ask, when he got his breath back, but Phaedrus had moved down to kissing his throat, biting a little when Conory so much as tried to think.

They finished each other in a few strokes, and Conory rolled over again, to rest against Phaedrus's side.

"I would have you bide here a year longer," said Phaedrus quietly into his hair.

Conory shook his head against Phaedrus's shoulder. "My home is with the Dalriadain," he said, "where else would I go? When the day comes that my people are at peace under their Horse Lord, then I will go to Eburacum, to see the blind leather-worker I have loved with my whole heart. But I will come back."

"Stay, then," said Phaedrus, his arm tightening around Conory. "And help me bring us peace."

* * *

It was on the nineteenth day after his promise to Phaedrus, that Conory bethought him to speak to Murna again. This time, she was cleaning one of her daggers, against the day Midir's resolve would crack and he would order the Women's Side into battle.

"Do you come here to say you're sorry?" she asked, not turning round.

Conory was silent for a moment, but he would not – could not – lie to the Royal Woman. "No, for I would have to then be sorry for it."

He saw Murna nod, and she set down the dagger on her sheepskins. "Then why do you come here?"

"To speak of Midir," he said. "To speak of your husband."

"And you are not afraid of my wrath?" she said sharply, jerking as if to rise to her feet.

"I would be," Conory said, watching her narrowly, "if you were angry."

He saw her nod again, and this time she turned. She was frowning slightly, as if unhappy because she could not be as furious as was her right.

"Why aren't you angry?" he asked.

Murna looked up at him.

"He is very big," she said. Conory did not understand her for a moment, for he had not expected crudity from her. But then he realised, and said:

"Yes. Everything in him is great-souled."

"He is – very like my mother, sometimes," said Murna. "You believe that he holds up the world on his broad shoulders, that he is everything he claims to be, and Many-Skilled Lugh into the bargain." She paused, searching for words. "You have to pack yourself down into a nutshell, to be strong enough to be his equal, and not a willing slave."

"I know," said Conory.

She nodded, and held out her hand. "I have shared the load with you," she said.

"Between the two of us," said Conory, "we should hold up the sky at least, and the moon as well if we try."

He took her hands, and did not let go, not even when Midir came in and took off his cloak and boots, and the Horse Lord with them, until he was merely Phaedrus come amongst them again. Phaedrus saw their joined hands and said nothing, only held out his own. They all three of them tangled their fingers together, and sat by the warmth of the fire in the evening.


End file.
